The Female Gamester: A Tragedy Part 3

You are a man--

ANDREWS. I know not what I am.

Alas! my friend is stranger to these matters!

When once a woman deviates from discretion, Setting her heart on every vain pursuit, No husband then rests master of his fate.

Fond love no limit knows to its submission, Not more than beauty to its thirst for empire, Whose tears are not less pow'rful than its smiles.

Nay, ev'n dislike, 'gainst reason, oft must yield, Whilst the mind's quiet is an object priz'd; So is the s.e.x from its sweet purpose chang'd--

WILSON. Your state then seems quite hopeless of relief?

ANDREWS. O! could I wean her from this one sad vice!

Wipe out this only speck in her rich volume!

Then, all my woes should cease; then, would I write, In truth's fair characters, her matchless worth, Nor blush to boast the fondness of my heart.

WILSON. Your love admits some doubt.

ANDREWS. My love of her!-----

WILSON. Ev'n so.

Do you not tamely see her, ev'ry day, Destroying wantonly her precious health?

But what is more------I shall proceed too far.

ANDREWS. Go on, I am prepar'd.

WILSON. Her reputation--

ANDREWS. Her reputation!

WILSON. I have said it,

ANDREWS. Heav'n!

WILSON. It has not 'scap'd the busy tongue of censure, Yet let appearances be what they may, I think she's innocent.

ANDREWS. What, innocent!

Against appearances!--impossible.

All sense disclaims the thought; these neglected, Neglect of virtue is the sure attendant, And ev'n the firmest may be then seduced;-- 'Tis as the noon-day plain.--Who? who's the villain?

The murderer of my peace? By heav'n! he dies.

WILSON. Madness indeed! all may be mere surmise; Wherefore, at present it will be most prudent, To hush the sad ideas of suspicion.

A little time must prove its truth, or falsehood; Besides, the person charg'd is of high rank.

ANDREWS. O! there's no rank can sanctify such outrage.

Lord Belmour! say--

WILSON. Yes--he--or why that name?

ANDREWS. They nearly are a-kin--and yet of late His visits have been rather more than usual.

But have you any proof for this your hint?

WILSON. It is the current rumour of the neighbourhood, Else I should ne'er have dar'd to wound your ear; But friends.h.i.+p urges the unpleasing task-- You tell me, you sleep mostly in the country?

ANDREWS. What then? he may, ev'n when I sleep in town, Pa.s.s nights with her, and all unknown to me.

WILSON. You puzzle me.

ANDREWS. 'Tis easily explain'd.

For some time past we've slept in separate chambers.

For when she had exchang'd her harmless life For the destructive course she now pursues, Her hours became so late and so uncertain, My rest was quite disturb'd.

WILSON. Unhappy state!

Have you discours'd her calmly on these matters?

Few of her s.e.x possess superiour talents.

ANDREWS. Her temper is so chang'd, so sour'd of late,

Which with her sad misconduct still increases; And she so prides herself on her alliances, And the caresses of her vain a.s.sociates, That neither I, nor her neglected children, Dare ev'n attempt the least discourse with her.

Did you know all, 'twould rend your tender heart. [He pauses a while, then walks about much disturbed.]

WILSON. He has abundance more to hear of yet; Two bills this very day, went off unpaid, A stroke too fatal, e'er to be recover'd. [Aside.]

Affliction is heav'n's trial of our patience, As of its love sure proof; and oft' our benefit.

ANDREWS. Can you continue friend to such lost fortune?

WILSON. How it would grieve me could you even doubt it!

The surest test of friends.h.i.+p is affliction.

'Tis then, the faithful heart displays itself, Whilst vain professors vanish in the gloom.

ANDREWS. Tell me--Oh tell me! what would you advise?

WILSON. Against we meet on the Exchange to-day, I will revolve it well.

ANDREWS. Reward your goodness heav'n! [WILSON goes off.]

Re-enter THOMAS.

Oh what a fatal change in my affairs!

Have you observ'd it, Thomas, yet been silent?

THOMAS. I almost wish I knew not how to answer: But since it is his will I must obey. [Aside.]

Dare then your faithful servant speak some truths, With which his heart is full?

ANDREWS. What prevents you?

THOMAS. I dare not--yet--[aside] suppose 'twere of a wife, So lov'd, so doted on?--

ANDREWS. Prithee, proceed.

THOMAS. Then know, last night, that as I lay awake, And hearing near the compting-house a noise, I rose, and in the dark mov'd softly towards it; When I (unseen by her) beheld her pa.s.sing Quickly from thence, and in her hands a light, And key, with which she op'd the iron chest.